


Terms and Conditions

by gildedfrost



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic, Gods, M/M, Pregnancy, Resurrection, Rituals, Trans Connor (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26551546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedfrost/pseuds/gildedfrost
Summary: It's some minor god of pride that he's invoking this time. A being long forgotten, with stories that Hank can't make out in a language no one knows anymore, and he doesn't know if he'll only end up scorned for his complete lack of dignity, assuming this thing is even real. But he needs Cole back before he puts a bullet in his own head.He thumbs the platinum $100 coin in his hand—a prized token from his late father’s collection—and tosses it into the running water with a prayer on his lips.A hand snatches it out of the air.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	Terms and Conditions

**Author's Note:**

> I said I wasn't going to write this and then I did... oops.
> 
> Two chapters planned!

Hank kneels on the banks of the river at midnight, stout candles lit behind him in a circle around trinkets and baubles, all laid out as dictated in the ritual text. Roses, mead, a brick, a child’s toy, and a glass gifted to him long ago alongside a bottle of bourbon when he made Lieutenant.

He doesn’t know if he’s doing it right. He’s gone over the ancient texts, written in a long-dead language only a few scholars have any grasp on, and cobbled together a ritual from bits and pieces of journals and records in a desperate, last-ditch attempt at fixing his life. The chant part was easy: It doesn’t take any understanding to memorize and recite sounds. Translating the text and interpreting that correctly—a remnant of the deceased, the finest vessel in his house—is a different matter.

It’s a shot in the dark, but he’ll take it. He can’t handle anything else, and he’s half-tempted to throw himself into the river if this doesn't work.

He doesn't expect it to. It's not the first supernatural being he's tried to appeal to and it may not be the last, and he suspects none of them may be real, in the end, but he's out of options. He can't go on anymore. He needs Cole back before he puts a bullet in his own head.

It's some minor god of pride that he's invoking this time, according to what he could glean. A being long forgotten, with stories that Hank can't make out in a language no one knows anymore, and he doesn't know if he'll only end up scorned for his complete lack of dignity, assuming this thing is even real.

He thumbs the platinum $100 coin in his hand—a prized token from his late father’s collection—and tosses it into the running water with a prayer on his lips.

A hand snatches it out of the air.

He blinks, and it's gone, nothing to be seen.

He wonders if it wasn't just his imagination. Wishful thinking as the river washed away the coin.

He's already voiced that he wants Cole back in both English and the script he pieced together. He has nothing more to request, and he's already given all he has to offer.

Nothing.

There’s nothing but him and the crickets.

He waits another hour before heading home, knees covered in mud and a bag full of melted candles. Another failed attempt. It isn’t a surprise, but it sure as hell is a disappointment. Just one more to check off his list.

He downs half a bottle of whiskey before going to bed.

* * *

Hank wakes in the morning to a pounding headache, three missed calls from his new boss at the library, and a knock on the door.

“Motherfucker.” Hank tosses the phone back on the bedside table. That’s a conversation he will definitely need to have once he has the will to care about anything else again.

The doorbell rings.

“Yeah, no,” Hank says. He lies back and stares at the ceiling. It’s too late in the morning to fall back asleep, but he doesn’t want to get up yet.

Another knock. Hank ignores it.

Then, the asshole gets cocky and holds down the fucking doorbell.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hank says, shoving back the cover and climbing out of bed. Can’t they give a guy some peace? He doesn’t bother to put on anything more than some old pajama pants. If someone’s going to be that obnoxious, they’ll need to deal with the consequences.

He lets Sumo out the back, then opens the door with more force than strictly necessary to find a guy dressed in a suit at his doorstep.

Looks like a Witness, right down to the horrible smile. "I don't care about Jesus," Hank says, staring the man straight in the eyes and shutting the door.

The stranger knocks again.

Hank opens the door.

"It's a good thing I'm not Jesus," the man says, picking a quarter out of his breast pocket and rolling it across his knuckles.

Hank’s not here for party tricks, either. He goes to shut the door again, but pauses halfway as the sunlight glints off of the quarter.

It doesn’t shine like a quarter should. He squints, trying to make out the exact size and pattern of it. The man tosses it to his other hand, catching it between his first two fingers and holding it up for Hank to see.

Platinum.

Hank's eyes snap up to the man's face. He steps back, opening the door.

“You..." Hank swallows. He can’t believe it. "You're real."

"Quite." He peruses Hank's house curiously, drifting between the living room and the kitchen. Nothing holds his interest for more than a few seconds. "You're Henry, aren't you? Call me Connor."

"Hank. No one’s called me Henry since high school,” Hank says. “So... What do you need from me? I'll do anything.”

"Straight to business. Good. I need your house, your clothes, your food," Connor says, listing off the items with his fingers. "And your skills with people."

Hank raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t care about shit anymore. If Connor wants it and he’s legit, he can have it. "I'm fresh out of the last of those. I’ve done nothing but piss people off for the past three years."

Connor tugs on his suit jacket. "I stole this. You need to resolve that situation, or we're going to have a very bad time."

That's... something.

"I'll get it resolved," Hank agrees, because what else can he do? "But first, we need to sort out, like, terms, or something? God, you're actually real."

"We sorted out the terms already. Your offering and invocation said all that needed to be said," Connor says agreeably. He picks at some loose threads at the corner of the couch, but quickly loses interest.

Hank's mouth goes dry and he wonders if he hasn't horribly fucked up. "Yeah, I don't speak that language. I'm not entirely sure what I agreed to."

"You wanted your son back, right? Cole Anderson, born September 23, 2029 at 1:59 AM, died October 11, 2035 at 11:27 PM. Your only son with Alexandra Decker." Connor smiles, all teeth. "You offered all of the means to make it happen. The rest of your payment can be organized at a later date."

Hank's ready to throttle the guy. "Great, that’s nice and all, but I don't see anything happening."

"Because you are short-sighted, impatient, and entitled," Connor says primly.

"I just want my son back!"

"And you will have him. I suggest exercising more respect." Connor glances over to the recycling.

There's a horrid sound as every bottle in the box fractures before his eyes, the glass ready to fall apart at the slightest touch.

Connor leans back on his heels. “You’re the one who requested my aid. Act like it.”

Hank's mouth thins. He takes a deep breath. "Tell me what you need," he says. "Please."

Connor rests a hand on his flat belly. "I house Cole’s soul inside my womb. His body is long gone, but I can make another. It’s a simple process." He smiles slowly at Hank. "I need only your seed."

Oh.

"And then what?" Hank asks.

"And then I stay here. I can't exactly shed this form while growing a living being inside of it, can I? I will remain here for nine months, and then leave you to re-raise your progeny and explain to all your neighbors why you've named your new child Cole. Not my problem, really."

It makes sense. It's a lot of fine print Hank never had the chance to read, but all he can focus on is that he can have Cole back.

"Will he look the same? Will he remember me?"

"He’ll look the same. Genetically, at least. His appearance may change based on how you raise him,” Connor says. “And he will remember everything, given time. Not a memory will be lost."

"Okay." Hank offers his hand. "I'm in. When do we get started?"

Connor looks between Hank’s hand and face incredulously. "Are you serious?"

"I'm serious. Let’s get on with it."

Connor steps forward until he's toe to toe with Hank. "I will not simply bend over to be bred like a dog. Where's your tact? Your self-respect?” He whips out the coin again, raising it up between them. "Or was this all you thought to offer me? One shiny trinket and you think I’ll do whatever you ask? I’m neither a magpie nor a whore.”

The tirade stuns Hank into silence.

He knows how he looks: Hungover, hair a mess, beard out of control. He wouldn’t have sex with himself. Hell, he’d kick himself out of the house, if he were Connor.

But he offered anything, and if this is what it takes—if there's hope that he could see his little boy again within only a year—god, he'll take it.

Hank takes Connor's hands in his. He can do better, and it goes against all of his depression and self-loathing, but he can shape up for Connor. He has to. "Will you go out with me tonight?"

Connor gives him the same smug, fake smile he had at the door. "I thought you'd never ask."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can find me on Twitter as @gildedfrost (18+), and I spend time in the [New ERA](https://discord.gg/2EKAAz3) DBH Discord server as well!


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